


The Last Flight of the Falcon

by eldritcher



Series: The Journal of Maglor [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:00:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Turgon really has had enough of sunsets, sunrises, kings, lovers, madmen, philosophers and war. Unfortunately for him, none of those is going anywhere. Fortunately, Curufin can help him forget it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Flight of the Falcon

Atarinkë – Curufin  
Lómion – Maeglin  
×××

 

Hithlum,

Nírnaeth Arnoediad.

 

“You should have stayed in Gondolin!” I protested in vain as we rode south towards safety, our numbers cruelly decimated.

“Must we speak now?” Lómion brought the spur on his boots to his horse’s flanks, increasing the speed. “We must hurry, Aranya.”

My heart leapt into my throat when I saw Húrin and Huor covering up our retreat, the devils of Morgoth closing in on them. I turned about in the saddle reflexively, preparing to join them in the defence. A strong grip on my wrist pulled me on, towards cowardice and retreat. 

“Uncle, please, we must go on.” He rarely addressed me so. That, along with the pleading note in his melodious voice was enough to give in. 

“They will be killed.”

“We will avenge them,” he said reassuringly, those piercing black eyes softening as he gazed at me. “Uncle, they have brought us freedom. We cannot let their sacrifice go in vain. We must retreat to our city.”

I turned back towards the bloody melee. I could see Húrin standing tall and proud amidst the raging battle. I gulped. I was such a coward, running away from a war that had claimed my brother and some of my best warriors. I did not even notice the path we took, and I was glad that Lómion and Ecthelion were there to lead our men.

“Cousin!” Maitimo hailed me and I shook myself out of my troubled reverie when I saw the picture he made in shining armour, a bloodstained blade aloft in his hand and his crimson mane flying askew. 

“Are you harmed?” I shouted. “We are all safe. I managed to escape the worst of it.”

“And that is well!” He joined me, casting Lómion a curious glance before pained recognition shone in his eyes. “Irissë’s son?”

“Lómion.” I nodded to my nephew, who dismounted and sketched a formal bow. 

A smile that was truly out of place on the face of a vanquished commander in a defeated battlefield lit Maitimo’s face as he leapt off his mount and embraced Lómion. Blood staining Maitimo’s sword seeped onto Lómion’s tunic and a shadow of premonition unsettled me. Before I could react, Maitimo had stepped away from my nephew and was looking at me expectantly.

“What?” I asked him. “I think we should gather our forces and prepare our defences. Hithlum cannot be surrendered so easily.”

“Carnistro and Tyelkormo have been wounded. Set camp a few miles to the south. I will be your rearguard. Huor has fallen. They are closing in on us. No, you cannot come. My men are more capable than yours.”

“Hithlum-” I began crossly.

“We can do nothing about it when we are so disarrayed,” Maitimo cut in. “Keep an eye on my brothers. I will go and see what is to be done about Findekáno’s men.”

“I will take them into my ranks,” I offered. 

“I shall tell them so,” Maitimo said. “For now, lead the retreat, cousin. I must hurry to the battle.”

I watched in dismay as he gave me a charming smile and rushed back to the war. One would think that he was gleeful at the prospect of defeat. Even for someone as philosophically insane as he was, a defeat must still account for something. And he did not look as if he was particularly heartbroken over his lover’s fall. My brother and I have never been close. Except for a detached sense of grief, his death did not inspire deep emotional turmoil in me. But surely, as my brother’s lover, Maitimo must be deeply grieved?

“Shall I go ahead and scout for a suitable campsite?” Lómion asked me.

“Send Ecthelion on. I prefer that you ride with me.”

He smiled grimly. His smiles were rare and cold. Glorfindel had told me that my sister’s unhappy life had wrought deep grief in her son’s heart. How I wished that I could take the burden off his shoulders! I knew well a son’s feeling of worthlessness at not being able to help his mother. It was something I had experienced myself during the days when my parents had tried to put on pretence of love before our people. 

I tried to be a good father to Lómion and my daughter. But it was hard. Between my rash bouts of pride and their stubbornness, I fear that I made a cruel parent. 

A familiar sense of being watched overtook my thoughts. I stiffened in my seat and halted my horse. The much-tried creature snorted in exasperation and jolted me with a feisty manoeuvre.

“It is heartwarming to see that you are still on excellent terms with all good beasts,” a much-loved, much-missed voice told me. 

I sighed and turned to face my cousin. He looked a sorry spectacle with the broken armour and numerous superficial wounds. But he was alive, very much so; and for that I was happier than I could say.

“Turkáno.” His eyes were darkened as they usually became when he was extremely moved by something.

I tried to smile and failed terribly. My throat constricted and I rasped something that sounded vaguely like his name. Lómion announced that he would join Ecthelion, thus leaving me privacy to greet my cousin. Not for the first time, I wondered what secrets of mine had his piercing black eyes unearthed.

“I wish we had met under better circumstances, my dear falcon.” 

My cousin’s voice was broken, whether by emotion or thirst, I did not know. The endearment left me reeling. He had often teased me about my hooked nose which regrettably resembled the beak of a bird of prey. But that he called me his falcon was something that touched chords deep in me.

“Atarinkë,” I whispered finally and the single word was enough to bring forth the whole pantheon of emotions that had assaulted my poorly fortified heart ever since I had ridden to war. I closed my eyes defiantly, willing myself to barricade my tormented soul from those raiding emotions.

The next I knew, I was caught in an embrace, our knees bumping against each other. I sighed and pulled him closer into my arms. He smelled of sweat, blood and grime. But it was the most comforting scent I had ever known. I threw off the iron gloves from my hands and brought my fingers to feel his solid form. 

I was singularly unlucky with animals and the occasion served to prove the fact again. My horse gave a whinny of disapproval and moved away. I dug in my spurs reflexively. Showing unaccustomed obedience, the horse galloped forward. I gripped my cousin in a bid to steady myself. Atarinkë cursed colorfully and toppled off his horse; mail-suit, broadsword and all. My shoulders were nearly wrenched out of their sockets as he clenched me for support. 

Later, after Atarinkë had employed colourful verbiage to convey his displeasure, and after my horse had taken us for a merry ride through the retreating cavalcade of battle-weary men, and certainly after I had profusely apologized for nearly harming my cousin’s symbol of gender, we sat by the campfire and spoke. 

Our tumble had helped us to find that ease of conversation after so many years. In the firelight, his face was flushed by exertion and his hair was a magnificent disarray of blood, grime and some things better left unnamed. My dismal spirits were lifted ever so slightly by the sight of his dear features. 

“Is Itarillë well?” he asked me as we spoke of our family.

“Idril is well.” I quickly concealed the flare of unease which rose in me. Idril’s infatuation with her cousin was a matter that would do nothing to help my spirits. “You remain the only person who calls her Itarillë, you know. She prefers being called Idril.”

He shrugged, eloquently conveying his displeasure for the substitution of Quenya by Sindarin. Then he asked, as I knew he would, “What worries you? She is certainly past the stage of rebelling against parental authority.” His eyes gleamed in the firelight as he shot me a knowing glance and I suppressed a smile. 

“I didn’t rebel against my parents,” I said amusedly. “They rebelled against me. Despite my sagely advice, they insisted on mutual infidelity. Speaking of rebels and offspring, what of your son? I saw him fighting beside Maitimo.”

“He will be safe then. He likes Maitimo. I don’t know why my saintly self ever fails to attract his filial devotion. Ah, the fact that Maitimo encourages him plays a role.”

I nodded. My eldest cousin encourages those around him despite their lack of talent. It was the main reason why Findekáno believed that his harp playing was magnificent when the truth was that his talent with the instrument was merely passable. For my part, I had warned Maitimo to never encourage me after he tried to tell me that I was a budding poet when I wrote history’s most appalling love paean to Elenwë. She had been horrified by it. 

“Atarinkë, Turkáno!” Macalaurë rushed to our side, looking spectrally thin and infuriatingly superior as ever. I smiled in relief and his aristocratic features broke into a matching grin before he stooped to embrace me, muttering a blasphemous greeting in my ear. 

“I stink, I am sure.” I could not help teasing his customary dislike of dirt. Long ago, when we had been blessedly young and arrogant, he would refuse to play with us abhorring the mud and the sweat.

“Defeat levels pride, I find.” 

His customary sarcasm had not changed a jot and I wondered why things never seem to change.

“Away with your verbal jousts,” Atarinkë mumbled. “I am in no temper to put up with them.”

“Is Maitimo sane?” I asked Macalaurë. It was, admittedly, one of the most frequently asked questions in our family.

“He was, the last I saw him.” 

Macalaurë tried to smoothen down his hair in such an idiosyncratic gesture that Atarinkë and I burst out laughing. It was the slightly desperate laughter of those who try to pretend that nothing is wrong and no wonder why Lómion and the others shot us sharp glares.

“However,” Macalaurë continued with the air of a healer who knows the ailment well and shall explain to the poor laymen only in their convoluted, roundabout manner, “I believe that his current bout of sinister joy in killing his unlamented enemies will soon give way to that interesting mixture of guilt and regret which I thoroughly despise.”

“If you despise it, he will spare you that,” Atarinkë said loyally.

“Well,” I began, “my brother did mean much to him. If I were in him now…” I broke off and stared at Atarinkë’s hand, which still bore the plain circlet of marriage. I could not bring myself to say more. I had survived Elenwë because of my cousin. I did not think that I would be able to live on if he…

Macalaurë said briskly, “Take Russandol’s tent. He shall not be returning any time soon. Away with you.”

Atarinkë did not wait for a stronger invitation and shoved himself to his feet, pulling me along as he did so. 

“Idiot,” he murmured fondly as he secured the cloth portal behind us. I was lighting a tallow candle that I had brought along. 

“Are you referring to me?”

“Of course.” 

He turned to face me and crooked an eyebrow. I did not take the bait, instead engaging myself pleasantly in removing his mail. He reciprocated, taking care to set aside the links in order so that the suit might be donned hastily if the need arose. We were not new to battlefields, he and I. But the almost mechanical nature of his actions made me wonder how safe his nights were. I had been playing the lord in my hidden city, while he was landless and often hunted.

“Stop thinking, will you?” 

“You need only ask.” 

We were half naked, the weak candlelight playing on none too flattering grimy bodies. He grumbled something about having to lick us clean and even my limited imagination sufficed to grant me a vision, making me shudder in anticipation.

“Eager, are we, falcon? Ever waiting to snare prey?” he teased as he fell to his knees before me, clever fingers untying the laces of my breeches.

“It has been a long time-”, I gasped and threw my head back in agony as those fingers tugged down my breeches and fisted around my testicles. He was a smith and a warrior. His fingers were callused as they handled me roughly. 

“How long?” he asked, his voice hoarse and broken.

I knew his eyes would be coal black now, if only I could bring myself to look. But he twisted my sac in an inventive manner and I fell down flat on my behind, the breeches locked about my knees. We were brought face to face by my fall and I said simply, “You would know, I believe.”

“I cannot believe that your people suffer to see such handsome assets unutilized,” he teased me as he pulled away the breeches completely, leaving me exposed to his assessing stare. I coloured when he raised his eyebrows on seeing my erection.

“I speak the truth,” I huffed. “Believe it or not, as you will.”

“We swore no oath of fidelity,” he began, nervousness suddenly flaring in his eyes. 

I frowned, wondering why he was bringing that up. What oath of fidelity was there for two widowers brought together by loss? 

“Atarinkë-”

“Hush.” He spread my legs apart with his hands, bending forward so that his face was nestled against my groin. He breathed in deeply, and whispered something inane about my scent. I was about to object to such a ridiculous observation when his fingers lifted my sac. I tensed, despite my lust. We had never ventured that far. I was sure that I did not wish to. There is nothing particularly enticing about being pounded from within by a rigid column of flesh. It was messy and painful.

“Let me.” He looked up into my eyes, his own painfully dark in intensity. 

I suppose I liked him well beyond the pale of reason, for I nodded silently and lay back, spreading my legs as willingly as any paid courtesan. Later, much later, I would wonder about my trust in him.

He did not speak again, and I was grateful for that. There was nothing with us to make the proceedings easier. He tried to use saliva, but I bucked and panicked so badly that he had to give up. 

I was frightened, frankly. Never had I been in such a position before. I was starting to admire the race of women for what they must be going through in their lives. Only my pride was staying my refusal. I had given him the consent to proceed, after all. To refuse now would be a coward’s way out, however enticing that seemed to me.

“Stay there.” 

He rose to his feet, leaving me sweating in that undignified position. I was about to demand an explanation when he collected the melting tallow from the candle and coated it over his fingers. But he placed a chaste kiss on my shoulder and settled down between my legs, his features drawn in concentration. His ardour was taking me aback. Never before had he shown interest in such proclivities. Had he met someone? That did not bear thinking about. I closed my eyes and tried to distance myself from the present.

A slick swipe of a crafty tongue at a place where it should never venture nearly threw me out of my skin. The shriek that escaped me must have been heard miles away, I was sure. 

“Atarinkë, stop that-” I began furiously, only to let my head fall back in defeat as he continued. His hands were holding down my hips as I squirmed. A deep groan escaped me and he paused for a moment. But the loss was so acute that I commanded him, “Put your tongue back there this instant!”

Taken aback, he complied readily. Before that I did not realize my vocal range. Apparently, it was not as limited as I had believed it to be. From disgustedly wanton mewls to deep, guttural groans of need, I explored the full extent of my vocal chords. When he tried to enter me again, I was far too gone to even realize that. It was not until he cupped my face and asked me to look at him that I understood that we were as close as nature would permit. Fear and panic welled up in me and I struggled under him, uncomfortable with the fullness that strained my insides.

He leant forward to bite down on my throat, possessiveness echoed in every move. I balked at the idea even as I moaned in pleasure when he drew blood. He proceeded to suck down on the bite with such abandon, the lewd sound repulsing and arousing me beyond words. His fingers were tracing lazy circles around my nipples, occasionally pinching them hard. When I had been expecting it the least, he pulled back and drove into me again. I screwed my eyes shut as pain overwhelmed me. I would be damned rather than letting him see my fear and pain. His fingers moved down to my loins and he began stroking me, with purposeful and rough rhythm. When he drove into me with the same rhythm, I could only scream aloud and call out to the Gods I took special pleasure to blaspheme about. 

Then something flared within me, a sensation of throbbing pleasure that sent a frisson down to the very tip of my toes. I screamed again and arched against him, fighting away his soothing hands, as I sought to rediscover that sensation again. He pushed me down onto the mattress and continued. But I threw caution to the winds and bucked against him, enjoying the sinful pain. My natural restraint fled in the face of such pleasure and I did not even bother to hold back the tears which were making their way down my cheeks. 

His fingers working their craft upon me proved to be my undoing and I came with a loud shout, appending a clichéd sentence to his name. I could feel his erection swell, his arms came to grip my waist and he expended himself within what had been grudgingly given. It had been everything I had suspected of it, messy, sticky and painful. But the messiness seemed to bring in intimate warmth between us. The stickiness, I decided to overlook. The pain was clearly a poor price for the rest of it.

“Turkáno?” 

He had leapt off me and was exhibiting such industry that I had never seen even in his exuberant father. He rushed to the pitcher of water and came back to me with wet towels, wiping off the sticky mess of the fluids with them. Then he hurried to fetch a water skin and squatted down beside me, urging me to drink. Even as I complied languidly, he parted my legs and peered concernedly at the battle site. 

I spread my legs more and wriggled my hips fetchingly, hoping to lure him back.

“Oh my dear falcon!” he sighed and came to lie down beside me, his fingers roaming restlessly over my damp torso, his legs entwined casually with mine.

“An inspired performance,” I wheezed. My respiration was yet to reach its steady levels.

“You flatter me,” he snorted, leaning in to kiss my brow with such tenderness that I knew I would be emotionally undone if he did that again.

“Where did you learn to do that?” I turned to embrace him, rubbing our noses together.

“I wheedled the specifics out of Findaráto a long time ago. He had specialized in the area, after all.”

Others might have accused him of infidelity. But I knew him too well. We Finwëans were many things; but none had ever accused us of infidelity. So I settled in for asking the next question.

“Whatever made you think that I would like it?” I nestled my face in the hollow of his collar bone contentedly, my fingers tracing the many bruises and superficial wounds on his body bestowed by the day’s fight. 

“Maitimo told me so.”

My fingers paused in their task and I looked up at him horrified.

“You didn’t discuss my sexual preferences with him!” I exclaimed, itching to wring his neck.

“Of course not, you idiot.” The insult sounded endearingly soft and I let it pass forgiven. Hard lips came to kiss me senseless before he pushed me back into the nest between his torso and our limbs.

“Tell me.”

He chuckled at my command, the deep rumble within his chest bringing tremors to my body. I tentatively kissed his collarbone. He arched his neck, exposing the slender column of his throat to me. 

“Tell me.” I pinched his flanks.

“Maitimo said that he shared some of your traits…and that it might extend to your sexual preferences too.” 

The words came out in a tumbled rush, racing each other to the end. I did not know whether to hunt down Maitimo and drown him to death or to fall prostrate before his feet in gratitude for having inspired this delightfully wild night.

“It wasn’t much. He was drunk. I was thinking of you. He deduced it and suggested this.”

“I didn’t know he drank. And, I didn’t know that you think of me.”

“I think of you for ridiculously long periods every day. There are times when it is difficult to think of anyone but you,” he admitted frankly, pride thawed by post-coital languor.

Sinful warmth, that had nothing to do with the climate, blossomed in me. I suppressed it and said thoughtfully, “That explains the noises that Findekáno and Maitimo made when they spent the night together.”

“Hmmm…” was all that my companion had to say.

“I wonder how he will cope,” I persisted. “He did not look particularly aggrieved when I saw him earlier.”

“You are obtuse.”

“Well, he is talented in hiding his emotions.” I gave in, disgruntled by his insult. “But still-”

“They were never lovers, falcon.”

I pushed myself up on my elbows and glared at him in consternation. He shook his head and pulled me down before repeating his statement.

“Atarinkë!”

“They were playmates, I would say,” he spat the word with disgust. “I don’t claim to understand what they had. But whatever it was, it ended a long time ago and they settled down to their friendship of old.”

“Then why was he telling you about his preferences?”

“You will have it out of me, won’t you?”

“Yes, I am incredibly curious to know why he felt I would like being ravished like a woman.”

“He philosophized drunkenly about trust, control, vulnerability and many craven topics that I truly feared for his sanity. Then he remarked how alike Artanis and you were to him in certain aspects. Apparently, he felt that both of you would appreciate being on the brunt of passion than instigating it.”

“I don’t think I wish to hear about their sexual exploits,” I shuddered. 

“I was not planning to tell you about anybody’s sexual exploits. You are mine, and mine you shall stay.”

“Does it hold reciprocally?” I asked him.

“The reciprocal relation has held true for a frightfully long time. You are as blind as a mole.”

“I have been remarkably dense.” 

“You always are, falcon. I wonder why they call you wise,” was his sardonic reply.

Revelation struck me as I remembered the frightfully possessive tone in which Macalaurë had spoken earlier of his brother. I remembered Artanis telling me long ago that she was yet to meet a man who allowed her to lower her defences. 

“I shall remember to thank Maitimo for venturing into this subject. Maybe he should get drunk more often.”

I yawned and cuddled against him, despite my natural dislike for such pampering. He patted me indulgently and wrapped his hands about me, his fingers stroking my spine in long, soothing movements.

“I think the world of you, you know.” 

His voice was low and pained, as if he knew how I would interpret such a statement. I interpreted it in the only way I could, counting the frantic heartbeat that raced under his ribs which I could feel against my skin.

“It is a shared affliction.”

We were too cynical and proud to declare conventional statements of love. But that did not mean we were incapable of feeling that dark emotion. I did not speak again, content to feel his racing heartbeat calming to a soothing rhythm. I was never particularly fanciful or sentimental; but that night and all the nights that followed, I could not help thinking that I was grateful to my uncle for having led us away from Valinor. He had, in a way, ensured this end.

“They are asleep!” I could hear Macalaurë’s voice raised stridently. I buried my face in Atarinkë’s hair. It smelt of filth, semen and blood. I found that I liked the smell.

“I don’t care. He has to leave, immediately.” 

I knew that tone of voice bid us no good. Gently, I nudged Atarinkë awake. He looked at me blearily, eyes half-lidded in sleep. But a lazy, smug smile teased his lips and he leant in to kiss me thoroughly. It was undoubtedly one of the best mornings I have lived to see.

“’Tis but dawn. Why are they bickering?” He stretched sinuously and pushed me away. “I will find out what the matter is. If left to themselves, they might do each other harm.”

“I am coming.” I made to rise. 

But he pushed me down saying cheerily, “I plan to return and wake little Turkáno myself.”

“Little Turkáno? We are of the same age, give or take!”

“I cannot argue on that. I meant this spry fellow here,” he said merrily, directing a coy glance at my stirring loins.

I shoved him off me, torn between hysterical laughter and furious anger at his contagious mirth. “Go away. And don’t come back unless you are prepared to undergo a sample of what you subjected me to last night.”

“It will be my deepest pleasure to be used as you see fit.” 

He gave a brazen grin on seeing my incredulous expression before throwing on his clothes and leaving the tent. I could not help a bark of laughter and threw my hand above my eyes in exasperation.

There seemed to be no ceasing of their shouting without. Sighing, I dressed hastily and swept my disheveled hair away from my face before exiting the tent.

Maitimo was arguing with Macalaurë and Atarinkë, his eyes cold and determined. Concerned, I made my way over to them. Bitter words ensued between Maitimo and me when I learnt of the matter. He overruled me, as he always had. 

My long retreat to my city began, led by Lómion and Ecthelion. I embraced Atarinkë for what was the last time of our lives. His fingers trembled as he cupped my face and placed a final, wistful kiss on my brow. I looked past him, to where Maitimo stood. 

“Forgive him,” Macalaurë said quietly, as he stood beside us. “He does what he feels is right.”

“I might never be able to forgive him,” I hissed. “You might as well as tell him that.”

“He is undoubtedly wise enough to deduce that for himself,” he raised a supercilious eyebrow. Atarinkë sighed and Macalaurë relented, “He ends up destroying what he loves in a bid to preserve them. He believes our cause is best served by your safety.”

My resultant scowl was wiped away when the sun rose behind Maitimo, rendering him into a statue of crimson and gold. His tormented eyes gazed at me helplessly, seeking forgiveness and yet determined. I tilted my head to him. There was more at stake for us than Atarinkë and I. 

And the sun cast its rays over him, washing his pallor away with red, bleeding its sorrow for our unhappy family. 

“Promise me that you will not run headlong into danger,” I whispered in Atarinkë’s ear.

“Promise me that you will be a better parent to your daughter and nephew,” he teased me. 

“That’s unworthy of you!”

“Pompous idiot!”

“Liar!”

It was easier to part on those terms. We called each other names that turned crimson my hardiest men’s ears. His insinuation that I was a hermaphrodite followed close to my accusation that he was a bastard. It helped. I didn’t have to grieve until I was well out of his sight.

“The sun bleeds today,” Lómion remarked quietly as he joined me.

“I don’t wish to speak.”

“Uncle,” he pressed a warm palm on my wrist, “you are the only father I have known. Nothing shall change that.”

“Don’t tell my daughter that I-”

“I shall not.” He smiled reassuringly and led his horse onwards.

And we left our kin to destruction, fleeing as cowards to our safe haven. I looked up at the sun. I had never cared much for it before until then. But seeing the red, fiery ball, I realized that it was the only thing that wept for our losses. 

“We made it!” Ecthelion shouted. 

My people ran out of the gate to welcome their king, their faces joyous and radiant. I dismounted and entered my beloved city. The gates barred behind me, closing me away from the world and more. Atarinkë’s falcon would never fly over Beleriand again.

“You are all unharmed,” my daughter murmured as she came to greet us, her gaze lingering more than was required on my nephew.

“Indeed,” I said crisply. 

She met my eyes defiantly before whispering, “You chose your safety above your love. Though I don’t hold with it, I accept your choice. Why can’t you do the same for me?”

“Because I have a hold over you as a father while you have none over me. My choices are my own and your choices are worth nothing.” 

I had never managed a civil conversation with her after learning about her infatuation. She cast me a pitying look before leaving the chamber. As she closed the chamber, her final words wafted over to me, painfully wise.

“Your wings are clipped and you are trapped in your city. Father, What is a falcon without freedom?”

 

 

Names  
Tyelkormo – Celegorm  
Findekáno – Fingon  
Irissë – Aredhel  
Turkáno – Turgon  
Atarinkë – Curufin  
Macalaurë – Maglor  
Maitimo – Maedhros  
Findaráto – Finrod  
Artanis – Galadriel  
Itarillë – Idril  
Lómion – Maeglin  
Aranya – ‘My King’

Canon: The Silmarillion

The Song of Sunset  
1\. The Journal of Fingolfin. (Gondolin, Aredhel etc)  
2\. The Journal of Maglor. (Nírnaeth Arnoediad)  
3\. Wildfire. (Eol & Aredhel)  
4\. Of Pride And Penalty. (Maeglin & Idril)  
5\. The Thawing. (Turgon & Curufin)  
6\. The Chalice. (Maedhros & Fingon)

In one of the Eregion chapters of Sunset (Chapter 7), Glorfindel remarks that those of the house of Fingolfin never get along well with animals. He probably draws the conclusion from the time spent with Turgon and later, Gil-Galad and Elrond. One of those little details that nobody will probably remember.

 

“Elrond obeyed Glorfindel’s command and held out his arm nervously for the falcon which came with an alacrity that surprised him. No other animal had ever taken to him so. Both Glorfindel and Maglor had often teased Elrond about inheriting what was supposedly Turgon’s luck with animals.”

 

×××


End file.
